


Take these words to heart

by dr_lumieres



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, Eames/OMC (sort of), M/M, UST, Varying POV, Violence (off-screen), h/c, many cups of tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_lumieres/pseuds/dr_lumieres
Summary: Eames invites Arthur onto a top-side job for which he’s been hired by… the police, via an old contact. The two men unexpectedly learn more about each other and about how they really work together when there’s no audience to play to and when the stakes are not too high. Arthur learns more about himself. A series of scenes.





	Take these words to heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a short piece of UST whilst I worked on my other, longer (probably doomed) WIP. Over a year later of occasionally coming back to this in fits and starts, the original scene has grown a beginning and an end, a sort of plot, and a morass of feelings. And then I cut half of it out again as everything about the job was just too indescribably plodding… I think it still makes sense. Finally, I should point out that I’ve never been to Hull and have nothing against it whatsoever, in fact, I'd quite like to visit!

 

Arthur started as his phone rang in the next room. He dropped the towels and boxer shorts on the floor in front of the washing machine, and jogged over to answer it, eyebrows rising slightly when he saw the caller’s name.

‘Eames,’ he acknowledged.

‘Hello Arthur,’ the forger greeted him, ‘how are you this fine day - I trust it is indeed a fine day where you are?’

‘I'm good, and I assume from that opening that you’re not in a life-or-death situation either,’ Arthur took the wind out of any sails that might be headed his way. ‘So what is this about?’

‘Always one for conversational niceties, aren’t you?’ Eames sighed. ‘But all right, then. How do you feel about an opportunity to visit one of Britain’s seriously crap towns?’

‘Huh, that’s quite the sales pitch,’ Arthur observed. ‘You do know how to tempt a man.’

*** 

‘So let me run through this to make sure we’re all on the same page.’

Eames looked on with the slightly uncomfortable feeling you get when two people from different areas of your life collide and you want them to like each other, even if you don’t quite know why you care. He was reasonably confident that Arthur had impressed Dan. He wasn’t entirely certain it went the other way too.

‘You have reason to think that this judge - Crostwight - is picking up vulnerable, er, cross-dressers, mainly immigrants, around the city, sometimes at this club, and intimidating them, and they’re too scared ever to talk about it or go to the police.’

‘That’s about the size of it, yeah.’ Dan drained the last of his milky tea.

‘So… Tom here will become a regular at this club, try to get picked up by Crostwight on one of his jaunts up from London - which you’ll be monitoring - and we arrange to get video footage of their… encounter.’

’Spot on, mate. I’d never have thought to ask Tommy here were it not for a specially interesting night out back in, must have been, what, ninety-six, ninety-seven? You wouldn’t think he has it in him, but believe me, he was very impressive!’ Dan gave Arthur a wink and chuckled, casting a cheeky grin over at Eames.

Eames grunted and pushed himself away from the radiator against which he’d been leaning. ‘Can’t guarantee I can still work that magic like I once could,’ he said, feeling strangely shy. ‘I’m no spring chicken anymore.’

‘Sure you can. Plus, I’m a sight happier asking you to help with this knowing you can actually look after yourself in a tight situation.’ Dan put down his mug. ‘Right, well, thanks for the cuppa, lads. I’d best be on my way. Nice to meet you Arthur,’ Dan stuck his hand out, which Arthur shook, having got to his feet.

‘And likewise. I’ll be in touch with your tech guy about the surveillance logistics.’

‘Yeah, that’s brill. I’ll put you in touch with Steve.’ Dan turned to Eames. ‘See you around mate. I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but…!’ and with a slap to his shoulder and a loud guffaw, he was turning away and the door swinging closed behind him.

‘Eames. Get your ass over here,’ Arthur’s summons was peremptory. Disinclined to jump as soon as he was called, Eames sloped back in at a leisurely pace. ‘There’s one thing I don’t get.’ Arthur was doing that slightly comical thing he did where he balanced on the two back legs of his chair.

‘Yes?’ Eames put on an overly attentive and solicitous expression.

‘Why am I here? I can’t believe you just want me to liaise with the camera crew. This job is above ground, above board, the police will have your six. I assume they know how to set you up with a wire…’ Arthur trailed off.

‘Very astute. Yeah, all of that’s true. But I actually need you for your research skills and for your unscrupulous nature in using them. The police are hobbled by strict privacy laws. I want to know what they haven’t found.’

‘OK.’

‘I also want to know what they _have_  found. It’s all well and good, them telling me the plot I’m meant to follow, but they won’t tell me more because I’m not part of their investigation. Victim confidentiality, and so on.’

‘Ah, so you want me to hack into the files of the London Metropolitan Police? And the Humberside Police while I’m at it.’

‘Precisely,’ Eames smirked at Arthur, who eventually smiled back.

***

As Eames walked along the cold and dismal streets of Hull in February, the irritating jumble in his mind began to clear. It had rained earlier and he had to avoid stepping in puddles, which meant that his attention was mainly on the surface of the ground at his feet. As he passed a small park, a couple of blackbirds flapped in a tree, cawing a few times before stilling again. Slowly, the cold and the damp settled him. Some youths crossed the street some twenty feet ahead, loud, shoving each other amiably, one or two of them casting glances at Eames. He wondered how they would act differently if he had already transformed himself. It was something he had enjoyed doing, years agp. Akin to forging, obviously not as complete, but in a strange way all the more satisfying, given that the challenge was greater, since it meant working with his actual body. But unlike forging in a dream, in which he was unquestioningly accepted as the person he chose to be, it meant dealing with a certain amount of attention, scrutiny, uncertainty, discomfort and judgement from others - both from the strangers he encountered and from his own entourage, in different ways. And now he allowed himself to acknowledge why he’d asked Arthur on this job to begin with, had even decided to pay him a fee out of his own funds (because let’s face it, it wasn’t as though the Humberside Police Force had great quantities of cash to splash around, even if this _was_ a joint operation with the Met). Arthur, for all that he could be a tetchy bugger, was uniquely matter-of-fact and non-judgemental. There was a good probability that Eames himself would be high-strung, sensitive and irritable throughout this process. A cool, stable presence like Arthur's, while in some ways lacking the calming effect that solitude might have offered, would keep him grounded in a way that was ultimately healthier.

Eames’s brain had automatically brought him to the water. He slowed and eventually stopped walking, leaned against a railing, looking out at the wide, grey expanse of the river before him. Seagulls described arcs above a ferry, approaching after its North Sea crossing. Traffic passed behind him, a constant hiss and smell of exhaust. It would be dark soon. He’d better get back.

A different route in the vague direction of the flat led him to a beauty salon. He nearly walked past, then realised his outing could serve a job-related purpose after all.

***

‘Hello darling, I’m home.’ Eames welcomed the warmth of the flat and the friendly yellow pool of light spilling into the hallway from the sitting room, where Arthur was no doubt still ensconced with his laptop. ‘I have some Indian take-away. That all right?’

‘More than,’ came the disembodied reply, the sound of an object being set down. Eames walked in to see Arthur on his toes, arms akimbo, shirt and jumper creeping up his waist, flexing his wrists and vocalising his way through an apparently satisfying stretch, then relaxing, eyes opening, taking in Eames himself standing in the door, sans shoes but still in his jacket, unmarked carrier bag looped over two fingers, hanging at his side, weighed down by plastic boxes of pilau rice, tandoori chicken, pork vindaloo, saag paneer, and-

Arthur emitted a shocked vocalisation, and his eyes would have come out on stalks if he'd had them.

‘What? It’s not so different from…’ Eames waved his hand at Arthur’s own clean-shaven face.

‘Yeah but,’ Arthur moved closer, and Eames instinctively backed away into the corridor. ‘Wait, don’t go where it’s dark. Well, come into the kitchen then.’ Eames found himself being manhandled into the next room and the overhead light switched on. He turned away to put the food on the table, and immediately was swung back around to face Arthur. ‘I can’t believe you did that. It must have hurt like hell.’

‘Yeah, it did. Still, needs must.’ Arthur’s hand came up and approached his throbbing face, and he flinched and turned his head away.

‘OK, no touching. Got it.’ Arthur held his hands up. ‘Ouch, though,’ he concluded, with an impressed half-smile.

‘Ouch indeed,’ Eames agreed. His face still hurt and felt puffy after his impromptu wax. He’d got some strange looks at the Indian restaurant, though in the dim light it may have been mostly his imagination, or perhaps they’d thought he had bad acne, or eczema. The beautician had been sympathetic, but he could tell she’d not been too comfortable with the whole thing. After all, what kind of man comes in off the street asking for a full beard wax? ‘Looks like shit now, I’m sure, but by tomorrow it’ll be all better.’ He clattered around in the drawer for knives and forks. ‘Get us a couple of plates, would you?’

Once they’d eaten and washed up and Eames had put on the kettle, Arthur disappeared briefly and then came back looking a bit awkward. Eames looked up from where he’d just put a bag of PG Tips into his mug.

‘I, er, I remembered I had this. Thought it might help.’ Arthur held out what at first Eames took to be lubricant and then saw to be an aloe gel. ‘An analgesic was another option, but I figured the skin is probably broken in places, so…’

‘Cheers,’ said Eames, as the kettle began to boil. He dealt with the tea, sat back down at the table, held out his hand.

‘Or I could-’ Arthur began. ‘I can see better than you can.’ He unscrewed the cap, setting it upside down on the table, now wiped clean of stray grains of rice and dribbled sauce.

‘Right, well, while the tea cools, no time like the present and all that. Ta.’ Eames tipped his face up towards Arthur, who hovered over him, holding the tube. He squeezed out a small amount of gel onto one finger, seemed to take a breath, and reached out to smooth it over Eames’s cheek. He was very gentle, and it was unsettling to observe the expression of careful concentration on his face, while feeling the cool slide over his irritated skin, someone else's touch, to which he was curiously numb in the absence of facial hair to stimulate the nerve endings beneath the skin. They breathed quietly in counterpoint while Arthur studiously covered his cheeks with the aloe product, totally focussed on the task at hand. Eames cupped his mug in one hand as it sat on the table and studied Arthur’s face: the dark attention of his eyes and the relaxed curve of his mouth. Eames took in the surprisingly kind expression with a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, occasionally looking away around the room or down at his tea. Finally, with a sweeping glance over his handiwork, Arthur lowered his hand and stepped back.

‘Done, I guess. Don’t slobber tea all over your chin now.’ His mouth quirked and he turned to recap the tube. Eames snorted. ‘Here, I’ll leave it with you overnight, in case you want to reapply.’

‘Thank you, Arthur. Most appreciative of your Florence Nightingale tendencies. I knew I wouldn’t regret having you along on this job.’ Eames knew he was being unnecessarily snarky to cover up the weirdness of the situation and his own impending identity wobble. From the sharp look he received in return, he thought that Arthur had probably caught on at least halfway.

***

Arthur was suddenly awake. He heard shoes being dropped, followed by muffled footsteps, and realised it was Eames come back from the club again. He settled back into his pillow, but after a couple of minutes recognised he would not sleep again without a slash. After he came out of the bathroom, seeing the light still on in the kitchen, he decided to go hear what Eames had to report.

Eames was sitting sideways at the table with his feet up on a second chair, and his ubiquitous mug of tea cradled in his hands. Arthur shuffled in and the other man looked up.

‘Hi, what’s up?’ Arthur mumbled, leaning against the doorway.

‘Sorry I woke you. I was trying to be quiet.’

’S’fine. How’d it go tonight?’

‘Swimmingly, as ever, but still no bite. I hope he really is in town and the bobbies haven’t been sending me on a wild goose chase.’

‘Maybe you’re not his type.’

Eames held up his hands. ‘I’m the last person to assume anyone would be interested in me as I am, believe me. But Dan said I fit the profile to a T, and you saw the photos of those other blokes. Of course, I’m older now…'

‘Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I just meant, I don’t know... And, for the record, I thought you looked great.’

That seemed to make Eames perk up. He smiled. ‘Really? Bless you.’

‘You’re amazingly convincing.’

The smile wavered. ‘Oh, thank you.’

‘Oh my God, Eames, you are such a prima donna,’ Arthur pushed away from the door to settle across from him at the table. ‘Yeah, sure, you look good. You know it. Even now, without the-’ he waved at the wig resting on the table in the hall. It was a bit disconcerting, Eames’s face all made up, mascaraed lashes, his cheekbones emphasised with blusher, his lips, his dress… and his hair short and messy on top, but there was indeed something compellingly attractive about it. Arthur cleared his throat, but then didn’t know what to add.

After a brief and slightly heavy silence, Eames spoke again. ‘No, I reckon it’s time to step things up a notch.’

‘What do you mean?’

Eames heaved himself to his feet and deposited his mug in the sink, then made his way over to Arthur’s chair. He leaned over and took Arthur’s hands from where they rested in his lap and batted his eyelashes coyly, pulling Arthur to stand. ‘I mean, how do you fancy paying a visit to Lola’s tomorrow night?’

‘Me?’ Arthur tried to pull his hands away, but Eames held on tight. ‘That wasn’t the plan! I can’t do it like you do. It would be ridiculous. No way.’ Arthur narrowed his eyes as Eames laughed, shaking soundlessly in front of him. ‘You think it would be funny, do you? Yeah, I’m sure it would, but the point wasn’t to give him _Cage aux folles_  farce.’

‘No, no,’ Eames laughed, letting go one of Arthur’s hands to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. ‘Not what I meant.’ He took a couple of shuddering deep breaths and sobered. ‘I _meant_ , I think you should come as a reasonable facsimile of yourself. Come in, let me chat you up. Let him see I mean business, maybe make him a little jealous, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Arthur felt wrong-footed. ‘I guess I could do that. It’s not really- I mean, I wouldn’t have to-’

‘I don’t know what it is you’re afraid of, exactly, but I guarantee I will not let anyone else get their talons into you.’

‘OK. Tomorrow night. We’ll pre-arrange a time and then you’ll know to expect me.’

‘Perfect. Now,’ Eames continued mock-seductively, pulling Arthur along as he walked backwards towards the rest of the flat, ‘let’s get to bed, shall we? I’m utterly shattered.’

Arthur gave a slight smile as he let himself be led to the door of his room, where he was released, while Eames went on to the bathroom to clean up.

*** 

After paying his entry, Arthur was confronted with a steep metal staircase descending into the basement. At the bottom, he pushed the heavy door and found himself inside, music closing in around him. He took in the bar, the tables adjacent, the dance floor. Along one side was clearly the two-way mirror for those in the know and willing to pay. Where Crostwight was supposed to be. He shook his head at the young man who offered to take his coat, and headed straight for the bar. He hadn’t immediately spotted Eames, but he trusted the other man to find him. He sat at a well-lit section of the bar not too far from the door and within the sight of the mirror. The bar-tender wasted no time in approaching.

‘Good evening sir. Can I get you anything, or would you care to look at our drinks menu first?’

‘Evening.’ Arthur looked around for a drinks menu. ‘I’ll have… oh, I’ll start with a gin and tonic.’ He settled back on his stool and took out his phone. No messages. He wondered whether it was better to appear busy, or to look around. He pretended to start reading an article from the FT on the likelihood that interest rates would go up over the course of the next six months, but before long his drink arrived and he let his screen go dark in favour of glancing around again as he poured the tonic water into his glass. He was about to return to it when he felt a presence behind him and turned.

Eames, dolled up as he had been upon leaving the flat, stood there in his low wedge heels. Again, Arthur was amazed at the transformation. It was almost as good as forging, except that he could see and recognise Eames’s shape and features under the makeup and clothes, but the man held himself completely differently and somehow seemed to have lost volume. Arthur remembered again where he was, and hoped he just looked interested.

Eames smiled beguilingly. ‘Hello, may I join you?’ His voice voice hadn’t changed, at least.

‘That’s not much of a line,’ Arthur commented.

Eames smiled sweetly, lips closed. ’Now, now, it’s easier if you play along. Is that a yes?’ He tilted his head.

OK, they were _playing_. Fine, Arthur could do this. ‘Please,’ he gestured to the seat beside him, movement visible to anyone who might be looking.

‘So, in town on business?’ Eames gave Arthur a blatant head-to-toe.

‘Yeah,’ Arthur leaned in a little. ‘I read about this place online and thought I’d give it a try. I’m in the country for a couple of weeks, so it seemed worth investigating. See if I could find someone like-minded for an evening, maybe.’ He gave his companion an intrigued glance.

‘I knew it was your first time,’ Eames’s voice was like coffee, Arthur thought, dark, and a subtle mix of rough and smooth.

‘That obvious?’ Arthur gave a slight smile and tried to look embarrassed.

‘Ooh darling,’ and now Eames leaned all the way in, and Arthur smelled his perfume, and something else underneath that. His stomach gave a weird quiver at Eames’s intense look. He broke it to glance off to his right, but his eyes cut back to Arthur immediately, with a conspiratorial smile now. ‘All the other girls are jealous.’

Arthur genuinely blushed at that, and Eames sort of cooed. ‘Yep, I had the pluck to come talk to the new man.’ He batted his eyelashes a little. ‘And _what_ a man,’ he sighed in apparent delight, no hint of irony.

‘I ah-’  Arthur felt derailed and looked back at his gin and tonic.

Eames almost giggled. ‘Let me help. Why don’t you buy me a drink. Let’s say a raspberry daiquiri, would you? And then-’ he reached out and drew a fingertip along Arthur’s hand, and dammit but that felt kind of electrifying, ‘then why don’t we move to a table along the wall where it’s more comfortable and you can take off that coat, hmm?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Arthur managed to say, through a suddenly constricting throat.

The table Eames had chosen was still in full view of the mirror, but the benches created an illusion of privacy. They had been sitting here all this time talking complete inanities about Arthur’s supposed visiting role at C4DI, his fictitious life in Seattle, and it was all Arthur could do to keep some kind of brainless conversation going because Eames was moving his fingers lightly over his palm, tracing each of his fingers, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb, trailing up along his wrist, and it felt _lovely_. And the whole time they were basically gazing into each other’s eyes, and why had he never noticed how pretty Eames’s eyes were? He smelled sweet and close and now his other hand was on Arthur’s shoulder.

‘Time for a kiss, don’t you think?’ And perhaps he wasn’t quite in character there, but it didn’t really matter, because that meant that Arthur could finally lower his eyes and- he stopped, just short of Eames’s mouth, and pulled back a couple of inches.

‘Sorry.’ He swallowed, not sure he could go through with this.

But Eames wasn’t allowing him to retreat. ‘Shh, don’t apologise love,’ he murmured, low, and nosed along Arthur’s cheek, then brought their lips together. And Arthur almost gasped as his whole body tingled and his insides jumped. A few teasing, chaste kisses and he was fully hard in his trousers; then Eames started a gentle invasion of his mouth while easing back on the banquette, making Arthur follow to lean over him. Arthur was in a state of simultaneous bliss and panic, because he couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough of this kissing (Jesus, it had really been too long), and Eames was pulling his hand over to place it on his sequin-skirted thigh, and he felt horribly open; he was sure Eames could tell he wasn't acting, just like  _he_ knew that Eames himself was a superb actor, so obviously none of his responses were real, no matter how convincing they seemed. Meanwhile, Eames was humming and drawing away to breathe, his eyes now a dark, dark blue-grey.

‘Mmm, aren’t you lovely,’ Eames purred, as if he hadn’t been the one in control of the whole thing, start to finish. ‘You can come back here and kiss me any day, Mr…?’

It took Arthur a few moments of stupid staring to realise that Eames expected some reaction from him. ‘Uh,’ he began, then stopped again. Had he had an alias planned? Eames looked indulgent and amused.

‘Arthur, what about Arthur, then, shall I call you that?’ he whispered against Arthur’s jawline. Arthur jerked away again. What kind of game was this now? He stared, shocked, in Eames’s eyes, willing him to say something more, reveal what he was up to, admit that he was joking by bringing their real names into this.

‘Mmm, Arthur,’ he said, and leaned in to bestow another brain-fizzing kiss. Arthur felt his limbs practically evaporate - in marked counterpoint to his dick, which felt solid, tight to burst and in desperate need of touch. He compensated by intensifying his kissing, bringing up a hand to brush against Eames’s neck, under his ear, making him give a sort of sigh into the kiss.

‘And what’s your name, then?’ he asked, retreating minutely, short of breath.

‘You can call me Millie,’ Eames replied, not missing a beat. The incongruity of the name was enough to penetrate the lustful haze clouding Arthur’s thoughts.

‘Seriously?’

‘Nothing wrong with Millie,’ Eames admonished him flirtatiously. ‘And now that we’ve been properly introduced-’ he reached into Arthur’s lap, not actually feeling him up, but close enough that another jolt of panic coursed through him, and close enough that Eames was able to make a show of being impressed with what he pretended to have found there - what he could have found if he had truly been groping Arthur - ‘now, would you care to take me home?’ Not sure that he could trust himself to speak again, Arthur responded with a nod. He had never been gladder of having a coat with him than now, as he used it to hide his extraordinary and embarrassing arousal while they left the club. Even though he was pretty certain that Eames knew exactly what was going on.

They maintained their fiction all the way up the stairs, past the staff at the entrance and all the way down the street, Arthur keeping his arm around Eames.

‘I hope he was there,’ Eames said eventually, after they had rounded the corner. Arthur let his hand drop away from Eames’s hip.

‘What the fuck was that about, using my real name?’ he demanded.

‘Well, you weren’t being very forthcoming with another one on your own,’ Eames responded equably. Besides, I thought it would help add verisimilitude.’

‘Verisimilitude?’

‘Making it seem realistic.’

‘I know what the word _means_ , you dick.’

‘Fine, in that case, I meant that it ought to have helped you to feel and act in the moment to be called by your own name rather than have to deal with more cognitive dissonance. If it didn’t help, then, sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘I had to call you something.’

As he walked along, shoulders hunched against the chill night, Arthur wondered: had it helped? Perhaps it had.

***

Eames was having a leisurely cup of tea with his morning toast and jam. He assumed Arthur had mainlined his Weetabix in the pre-dawn dark. He must have gone out as he wasn’t clacking away at his laptop in the sitting room. Arthur… Eames had lain awake in bed this morning replaying the delicious events of the previous night in his head, feeling a bit of a cad for taking advantage of the situation, but seriously, how could he have avoided enjoying the chance to make out with such a fit colleague? More was the pity he was straight, though Eames had to hand it to him; he’d done a fairly believable impression of enthusiasm at the time, barring a couple of hesitations. Eames remembered how he’d flinched away from the first kiss. But all the kisses after that had been fine. So much better than fine, really. Eames sighed at the giddy feeling whirling through him and the sense memory of what it had felt like in the moment to have Arthur pressing him into the cushioned back of the seat. He couldn’t allow himself to think like Millie, though, who would of course be developing a serious _faible_  for Arthur at this point. And why wouldn’t she? He was good-looking, clean-cut, serious, fantastically competent (though perhaps Millie wouldn’t know that yet), a gentleman and delightfully shy about making a move. He remembered the minute movements of Arthur’s eyelids as he had stroked his hand. Surely that hadn’t been entirely feigned pleasure? And yet he had seemed so cross afterwards, throwing insults at Eames as they’d walked away. A sudden cloud washed over him, there at the kitchen table, with his tea growing cold, and his good mood deflated as he remembered Arthur calling him names. His vision blurred a bit, and he swore and swung out of his chair, turning to look out the window at the brick wall opposite, and the few branches of the tree around the corner visible from where he was. The last thing he wanted was to be getting emotional about this now. He knew that Arthur had meant nothing by it, that it was their habitual mode of communication. Ordinarily he wouldn’t give it a second thought. But now, in his vulnerable mood-swing-prone state, it bothered him that the person he trusted, whom he had cajoled and caressed and kissed, had then turned around and felt the need to be harsh with him. Just because he was (mostly) a man, no longer a pretty young thing, and weighed twelve stone (give or take), he was supposed to be able to laugh everything off.

Eames dropped his head into his hands, standing at the window.

***

The night after, Eames came back early. ‘It’s Thursday,’ was all he said. ‘I have to call Dan.’

‘Day after tomorrow,’ Arthur’s eyes met his over the laptop screen. Eames walked towards the window as he dialled Dan on his mobile. There was no noise of typing or clicking from behind him.

***

‘Well,’ Eames rose from the chair, stretching, ‘I’d better see about shaving my legs again for tonight. What a palaver.’ He ambled off in the direction of the bathroom.

Arthur continued to scroll down the page on his laptop. ‘Shame you find it such a pain. I uh, I used to enjoy shaving my girlfriend’s legs, actually.’

‘Really.'

‘Yeah,’ Arthur looked up briefly. ‘It’s like ironing. Smoothing everything out.’ He made a wry face, intended to project self-awareness.

‘You volunteering to help, then?’

‘Um, I could,’ Arthur’s hands were suddenly damp and prickling. Lines of data marched up his screen, out of focus. He paused and pretended to read something. 'I guess. It’s not like anything’s showing up here.’ The silence that followed was noticeable, felt suddenly heavy.

When Eames spoke, his voice sounded thick: ‘Er, OK then, if that floats your boat. I’ll start running the bath.'

‘Yeah, go ahead, have a nice soak, when you’re ready just shout.'

‘Right.'

***

The bathroom, when Arthur reached it, was softly shrouded in steam, condensation on the window muting the light of the afternoon sun. Eames was reclining in the tub, mounds of bubbles floating on the surface of the water, a dark area at hip level where his boxers were submerged. His chest glistened wet, and his arms rested on the edges of the bathtub, shoulders looking too broad to fit comfortably within the confines of the tub. He opened his eyes.

‘I’ve done under my arms,’ Eames announced, vaguely lifting an elbow. Arthur felt his lips twitch in an embryonic smile: did Eames expect praise? Or perhaps this declaration was a sign that he felt ill at ease, since as Arthur stood, rolling up his shirtsleeves, he could see Eames swallow and start to fidget with the razor.

‘Great,’ he replied, grabbing a towel and perching on the edge of the tub. He reached over to take the bottle of women’s shaving gel and raised an eyebrow. ‘Attention to detail.'

‘A man’s product wouldn’t smell right,’ Eames’s voice rumbled deeply, a bit rough, echoing slightly in the small tiled room. Arthur allowed himself another smile, and reached into the water to grasp Eames’s ankle, pulling his foot up - his very male foot - to rest, heavy and dripping, on the towel in his lap. He pumped some gel onto the shin area and began to spread it with his fingers, smoothing it over the stubble that had grown out since his last shave. He followed the curve of Eames's calf, coating it in even white foam, enjoying the way the gel turned from a dense, translucent, pink substance into the more voluminous but lighter lather. An artificial, pseudo-floral scent wafted up, carried on the steam, while Eames’s foot weighed between his thighs.

‘Shaver?’ Arthur held out his hand to receive it. Starting low on Eames’s ankle, he drew it up the length of foam-covered shin, revealing a smooth, clean stripe of skin. Slowly and methodically, he continued to bare more of the leg up to the base of the knee, occasionally skimming a finger over the newly-shaven skin for quality control, enjoying the silky touch. The breathless silence of the steamy room was punctuated only by the sound of drops of water falling from the tap, small sloshing sounds as Eames shifted in the tub or as he himself rinsed off the razor, and their own breathing.

Eames cleared his throat. ‘So this girlfriend…’ he began.

Arthur looked up, pausing with the shaving. ‘I was in the military then. We met at the gym while I was on leave one time. It lasted for about eighteen months. She got tired of constantly waiting for me to get back. Long-distance is always hard.’ He lifted Eames’s foot to reach behind and work his way up the gastrocnemius. ‘It kind of always happens like that,’ he added.

‘You seem very philosophical about it,’ Eames remarked, as Arthur slid forward so that his knee and thigh were within easy reach.

‘What kind of information are you fishing for, Mr Eames?’ Arthur asked with a teasing smile, as he smoothed foam up the other man’s thigh.

‘Not fishing, just curious.’ Eames replied, holding up his hands in a mime of innocence, as Arthur carefully traced the bumpy topography of his knee.

‘I think it’s probably at least in part because I was never ready to put my relationships first. I liked having girlfriends but maybe I wasn’t that committed to them as individuals. I don’t know.’

Eames hummed an acknowledgement and sank deeper into the water to allow Arthur better access to his leg. He looked thoughtful. ’So is this everything you’d hoped?'

‘Sorry, what?’ Arthur met Eames’s eyes again, startled.

‘Are my legs providing you with a good shaving experience?’ His expression was sly, amused, and set off the slope of his eyebrows to great effect, even plucked as they were now.

’Sure, like I said, it’s something I enjoy.’ A glance showed Eames’s expression to be now verging on coy. ‘As for the legs themselves, I suppose I’ve seen worse,’ Arthur added, deadpan.

‘My word, a compliment! You do spoil me, Arthur.'

‘Shut up.’ But they were - nice legs, that is. With the hair removed, the musculature was more fully revealed, the dips and curves of bone, muscle and tendon different from a woman’s, but still attractive. Arthur could feel the little hairs catching on the blade as he pulled it along Eames’s outer thigh to where his boxers started. Again, he was struck by the smoothness of the skin as revealed by his ministrations, the occasional intake of breath and exhale as he touched Eames, shockingly intimate.

‘And when you shaved her legs, I suppose you sat on the edge of the tub too?’

‘Er, no, I- ’ Arthur could feel himself begin to blush. The idea of getting into the water with Eames flashed into his consciousness. ‘But, well,’ and he waved a vague hand at the bath as if to indicate that there wasn’t exactly much space. Eames just smiled back, not too teasing, but aware.

He soon finished shaving the left leg, and ran his fingertips gently along its length once more from ankle to thigh to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The skin felt warm and supple under his fingers, delightfully smooth, like high quality suede or silk. With a curious reluctance he lowered it back into the water. ‘I can’t reach the other one from over here,’ he decided, frowning at Eames’s right. Do you think you could sit the other way, maybe?’

‘Certainly.’ Eames rose in the tub, and Arthur stood to avoid being dripped on. Once Eames was facing the other direction, his head positioned alongside the water tap, Arthur resettled on the edge and pulled the second leg into his lap. The process began anew, with the careful lathering of the gel.

‘What’s this?’ Arthur asked, as a faint scar emerged from the foam, snaking over the calf in a strange, almost rhythmic pattern. He traced the line with a finger.

‘Ah, that,’ said Eames, shifting slightly in the water. ‘Bicycle ride gone wrong when I was fifteen. Going downhill, I hit something and lost control but I hung on so tight that I wasn’t thrown. Instead my leg got tangled up in the chain. Never quite sure how it happened. They had to cut it to extricate me from the bike.'

‘Ow,’ Arthur looked up in sympathy, meeting his colleague’s gaze, imagining him in his early teens, in pain. He applied his palm softly to the scar, as if it were somehow still tender, thumb stroking gently where it rested.

‘Arthur?’ Eames’s voice pulled him from his reverie.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ Arthur felt himself flush in embarrassment and returned to his task, only peripherally registering the unreadable expression on the other man’s face.

‘I didn’t do much cycling again after that, and I’ve never been interested in scooters or motorcycles,’ Eames mused. ‘Of course, before long I was learning to drive, so it wasn’t really a problem.'

Arthur had moved up to the quadricep, stripping the lather from it in long strokes of the razor. He worked clockwise, over the top of the thigh, then up from the inside of the knee, until he heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Did I cut you?’ he asked, looking in vain for a streak of blood near the top of the inner thigh.

‘No, no, everything’s fine.’ Nevertheless, Eames looked uncomfortable. It was only several seconds later that Arthur twigged. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, really. It was only natural that a certain type of stimulation should result in a very… natural reaction. Just as he himself had experienced only too recently at Lola’s. It was somewhat tricky to tell under the water, which in addition to having refractive properties, was slightly milky now from the shaving cream, but he was pretty sure that Eames was hard in his boxers. Hard from Arthur’s attention and touch. The idea sent a wave of blood rushing to his own groin, and he realised that he himself had been partially hard already from the sensual experience of the intimate grooming and his hyper-focus on the smoothness of Eames’s skin. This time, when he ran his hands up to check for missed patches, he kept his eyes trained on his colleague’s face. Eames met his gaze full on.

‘There you go,’ he announced finally, his voice a bit rough, lifting Eames’s foot from his lap and setting it back down in the water. ‘I guess you can take care of the rest if you think you need to be shaved all the way up.’ He gestured at Eames’s boxers.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Eames too sounded slightly hoarse. He drew one leg up slightly, and felt Arthur’s work. ‘Good job, ta.’

Arthur got to his feet, disposing of the towel, and moved towards the door, pausing when he was level with the end of the tub. Eames’s waxed face, flushed now from the heat of the bath, made him look younger, sharper than usual, and automatically, Arthur reached out to run a finger down his cheek and jawline. Eames’s mouth was hanging slightly open, his eyes glazed and dazed, perhaps with arousal. Arthur suppressed a strong impulse to drop to the floor and kiss him with more assurance and intent than he had done at the club; for himself and not for an audience or a mark. He started to move away and only then realised that Eames was resting a hand on the outside of his knee, soaking a wet pattern of fingers onto his jeans. ‘I’m not really a woman, you know that.’ It was both statement and question.

Arthur smiled. ‘Yeah, I do know that, Eames,’ he said, but there was no irritation, no impatience in his tone. ‘We’ve got a job to do tonight.’ It was an apparent non sequitur, but Eames seemed to catch his meaning.

***

Arthur paced restlessly around the flat as Eames got ready. Several times Eames could hear him approach the room where he stood, now dressed, doing his makeup at the chest of drawers opposite the door. Arthur’s presence felt almost oppressive, like the prowl of a dissatisfied big cat in an enclosure, and Eames could feel a tension, an awareness, pulling between them, a giant, invisible elastic band. Until this evening in the bath it hadn’t occurred to him that there might in fact be something there. He pencilled in his eyebrows, including the scar, curled his lashes, applied mascara. When he opened his eyes, he saw Arthur standing in the door.

‘Yes?’ he asked, moisturising his lips.

‘Just watching. Do you mind?'

‘Nah, but you can hardly see anything from there.’ Eames gestured vaguely, and Arthur approached. He returned his attention to the mirror, and picked up the lipstick, slowing slightly, putting on a bit of a show now that he had an audience. He always remembered the scene in _La Femme Nikita_ where Jeanne Moreau shows that young actress, whatever her name was, Annie something, how to apply lipstick, when he got to this part. He rubbed his lips together to smooth the layer of colour, watching tiny metallic glints shimmer as his mouth moved and stretched. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a snatch of verse floated to the surface of his mind. He gave himself a sardonic smile in the mirror and spoke:

_Little puffs of powder, little pots of paint_  
_Make a girl’s complexion exactly what it ain’t._  
_Take these words to heart, they’ll be of use some day_  
_For wisdom is my only art, that’s all I’ve got to say._  


He glanced at Arthur’s reflection again.

‘What’s that?’ the other man looked understandably curious.

‘Just came back to me. Probably the only poetry I remember from my grandmother.’ He smirked to show he knew that to call it poetry was stretching the definition.

‘Your grandmother knew that you liked to… dress up?’

‘Heavens no. I was very young, about ten. She was just entertaining me. It was some silly verse that she said girls wrote in each others’ autograph books back in the 1920s. I barely know what an autograph book is, but,’ he shrugged ruefully, ‘there you are, it stuck.’ He paused, rubbing his lips together again. ‘I just don’t know, though… what was the wisdom? How was it supposed to be of use? Was the message “Here’s how to catch yourself a man,” or was it “Beware, nothing is as it seems, all is artifice”? Ambiguous, isn’t it?’

Eames examined his reflection and applied some light touches of bronzing powder, aware of Arthur’s intense focus beside him, so intriguing. He wanted more time to explore this. The job now felt like an irksome distraction, but it would be over in a few hours, and what then? Arthur would be off to his next thing, he supposed, the job with the spreadsheets that he’d been scanning earlier. Satisfied with his face, he reached for the wig and put it on. As he adjusted it, Arthur took a step forward and reached up to stroke the light brown waves by Eames’s ear down to his shoulder. If Arthur had been touching his own hair, it would have turned him to water. As it was, the touch was dampened by the wig, but he could read the other man’s expression as clear as anything: _You’re beautiful_ , it said. _I want you badly but I’m holding back_. Christ. How was a bloke to stay professional when faced with this? Like the club and nothing like. He picked up the earrings, clipping one on, then the other. Just as he was about to step away, Arthur’s hands materialised somewhere between his lower back and his hips, firm, almost possessive.

‘Arthur?’ he asked, as the moment went on.

Arthur’s slight frown didn’t change, but his eyes came up to meet Eames’s in the mirror. ‘Just- just be careful,’ was all he said, and the pressure of his fingers briefly increased before it disappeared.

***

Eames was understandably subdued all the way back to the flat. Arthur told him the bare minimum about what had happened with the technology, attempting to make the whole episode more bearable by concentrating on the technical side of things. Eames stayed quiet, except once to say ‘So you were in the house the whole time, just a few feet overhead?’ Arthur wasn’t sure from his tone of voice whether Eames saw that as a positive thing or a negative one. He just concentrated on driving. They kept to quiet side streets, and Eames occasionally gave a direction or other advice.

As soon as they got in the door, Eames slid off his shoes and moved off down the corridor. ‘I’ll have a shower now, if you don’t mind.’ It was no surprise that he stayed in there as long as he did, probably past the point at which the water turned cold. Arthur dug some arnica cream out of his bag and left it, along with the tube of aloe gel, in front of the bathroom door. He moved restlessly around the flat, first cleaning up as best he could at the kitchen sink, then changing out of his dusty, cobweb-covered clothing.

Eventually Eames emerged from the bathroom and Arthur heard the sound of a kitchen cupboard open and close, then of the TV coming on, of channels being changed. When he entered the lounge, Eames was sitting on the sofa, dressed in sweats, hair air drying every which way. He was hunched over not a cup of tea, however, but a small bowl, placed on the coffee table in front of him. Arthur watched from the doorway as he smeared vaseline on his fingers, and then, to Arthur’s surprise, he dipped them into the bowl. On the television, something about the Great Barrier Reef was showing: soothing colours and narration, no human drama in sight. 

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting these nails off. It’s acetone.’

‘Ah, OK.’ Arthur moved to join him on the sofa. He angled himself mostly towards the TV, but was paying much more attention to the small movements in his peripheral vision. Eames himself was focussed on his hands, on dissolving the adhesive on the false fingernails. Blue and green flickered over his features as the man on the TV explained about coral formations. After a while, having removed the final fake extension, he moved back to the kitchen. Unable to keep away, Arthur followed and found him soaking his hands in soapy water in the sink.

‘Make you a cup of tea?’

‘That’d be nice, thanks.’ Arthur moved around, boiling water, assembling the ingredients: mug, spoon, teabag. ‘Thanks for the stuff too. The aloe and…’

‘Yeah, no problem. If there’s anything else…’

Cradling his mug, Eames turned from the kitchen door towards the bedrooms and, impulsively, Arthur reached out to touch his arm. ‘If you need to be alone, that’s cool, I understand, but I’d like it if you sat with me.’ He could see Eames weigh the options. Finally he returned to the lounge, this time settling sideways with his back to the armrest. Arthur sat at his feet, wanting to take them in his lap, to move his hands over the shape of them, ensconced in their navy wool socks, to feel them solid and warm, male and real. He resisted the impulse. Some pink anemones were waving about on the TV screen, red fish moving between the strands. Arthur gave up pretending to be watching and turned halfway to face Eames, who wasn’t watching either, but staring instead at some invisible point past his knees, turned in on himself. It wasn’t how Arthur had originally imagined the evening would go. The energy and tension that had crackled between them earlier had suggested they might follow through on the attraction that had been building throughout the job; he himself had practically promised it as he’d left Eames sitting in the tub that afternoon. But now, after everything he’d been through, both physically (those bruises would be quite spectacular) and psychologically (Crostwight's disdain and loathing had been something to behold, to say nothing of his arrogant parting threat), anything along those lines was out of the question. He didn’t even feel like it himself. Eventually, Eames finished his tea, set the mug down on the floor beside him and continued to sit passively, now drawing his feet in and leaning his head on his knees. If it weren’t for the lines on his forehead and the look in his eyes, he could be a little boy, sleepy, soon to be sent off to bed. A new emotion surged up in Arthur.

‘Hey Eames,’ he rose and walked to the other end of the sofa. ‘May I?’

‘I don’t want pity.’

‘Not pity, just… I was there too. I hated it so much.’ Arthur felt his voice break.

Eames raised his head, gauging the sincerity in Arthur's expression. Encouragingly, Arthur lay a gentle hand on his shoulder blade. He was pretty sure that Eames’s back hadn’t sustained any injury. Finally, the other man shuffled forward on the sofa, and Arthur slid in behind him. The armrest was pretty uncomfortable, digging into the middle of his back, but he shifted his weight sideways and pulled Eames to lean against him, encircling his shoulder in what he hoped felt a safe rather than a stifling embrace. With his other hand, he stroked the man’s hair, still damp; he leaned forward and breathed in the scent of his shampoo (his own, now, not a woman’s product): it smelled fresh, like thyme and macadamia oil, a hint of skin. Arthur traced the curvature of his skull, ultimately such a fragile vessel for the incredible wealth of knowledge, personality, memories and creativity housed within. It felt precious. He let his lips press against the drying strands of hair. They sat like that for a long time.

When, inevitably, the credits rolled on the screen and the next programme was announced, Eames reached for the remote and turned it off. Suddenly the room was very quiet, lit only by the light filtering through from the kitchen.

‘You’ll be OK, right?’ Arthur asked the question that had been preoccupying him most heavily. He murmured it softly into the hollow just behind Eames’s ear.

‘I’ll heal,’ he could feel the low rumble against his own chest as much as hear it. ‘Be right as rain.’

‘I’m serious.’

After a short silence, Eames spoke again: ‘It’s fine, really. I had a pretty good idea of what was coming, I was as prepared for it as anyone could have been, didn’t take it personally. Of course it was terribly unpleasant, but I’m not scarred. Now it’s after the show. I can let go. I feel drained - everything hurts too, which doesn’t help. But it’s also a matter of leaving Millie behind. That takes longer when I do it in the waking world. I can’t just snap back into being myself immediately.’

‘Thanks. For telling me.’ Arthur pressed a small kiss to his hairline.

‘And you, you’re being beautifully supportive here, but-’ here he pushed away from Arthur to sit up, turning so they were at ninety degrees from each other, ‘I think you need to let her go too.’

‘You think- you think this is about your act?’ Arthur recoiled in astonishment.

‘Come off it Arthur. You’re not exactly known for being gay. We’ve never done anything like this before, and we’ve worked together for years. I put it to you that all this is, on some level, because you’re still equating me with Millie. Or, if not exactly that role, some other feminised version of myself. It helped with the job. It was fun, all the flirting. While it was going on, I could even convince myself that there was something to it. But actually, the last thing I need right now is to be led on in… under a misapprehension.’

That stung. ‘I haven’t been leading you on. You- you think I want to mess with your head? _Now?_ ’ Arthur was suddenly furious, wanted to shout _Fuck you, you self-centred bastard_. But even now he recognised that Eames deserved patience at least until the morning. He swallowed and looked away from the man's profile, the slope of his nose, the slant of his eyebrows. ‘Sorry. I- for what it’s worth, I definitely haven’t been doing that, but, you know what? It’s late. Let’s get some sleep.’

Eames looked at Arthur properly for the first time since they’d got back that night. ‘That is, actually, a good idea.’

***

Arthur pushed the door, entering the café out of the London rain. The flat in Hull was now behind him, keys given back, and as far as he knew, damage deposit returned. He’d had two weeks’ break, during which he’d gone walking in Northern Spain - the Camino much less touristy in March than during the hot summer. It had given him space and time to clear his mind, and also to think. Arthur’s limited sexual encounters to date (because, between the military, his own exacting standards and running around looking after Cobb for two years, opportunities had not been nearly as numerous as some might have thought) had exclusively involved women. And he had never particularly considered whether it should be otherwise. Except… What had all that funny needling between him and Eames really been about all this time? He’d always been impressed by the forger: in awe of his talent, brains and creativity, his suave, aloof manner; he’d always wanted to impress him in return. Had it ever only been professional pride? Eames had always known how to get under his skin, had teased, and Arthur had interpreted this as the superior public-school Englishman mocking the less educated provincial. But on their last job all of that had fallen away, and on the trail in the early spring rain, Arthur had decided that there was something there worth exploring, that he couldn’t actually walk away. He ordered an Americano and impulsively asked for a millionnaire’s slice to go with it. He settled at a table from which he could watch the door.

Eames was only six minutes late.

‘Sorry, sorry’, he said, shaking drops of water from his umbrella. ‘I unexpectedly had to take a different route what with delays on the Hammersmith and City line.’ He took off his coat, hung it on the back of his chair, patted his pockets for his wallet, glanced at the board above the counter, fidgeted, avoided meeting Arthur’s eyes.

‘Eames.’ Arthur said it quietly, calmly. Waited until the other man had no choice but to stop moving and look at him. ‘It’s OK, it’s only a couple minutes.’ He smiled warmly.

Eames’s smile was relieved, instantaneous. His stubble had grown back. ‘Yeah, of course, that’s good.’ Another smile, then: ‘I’ll just go and- ’ he gestured at the counter.

Arthur’s could feel his own smile turn fond as he nodded. He watched Eames charm the girl taking his order, but turn around briefly a couple of times as if to make sure Arthur was still there. Finally he returned to their table and sat down.

‘So, you’re not here to let me down gently, then?’ he asked, casual-seeming, stirring his tea.

‘What makes you think that?’ Arthur took a sip of his own coffee.

‘Ah, Arthur, I know your smiles.’ Eames glanced up. He looked just as he always did: solid, male, confident, a little mischievous, but completely different as well: human, warm, vulnerable, a little beautiful.

Bashful, Arthur dimpled back at him. ‘Yeah, I had lots of time to think. I’ve never- not with- but I don’t think there was any reason. It just happened that way. I want to try, if you do. I couldn’t not want to.’

It was like at that club, when Eames reached across the table to touch his hand, but completely different too.

 


End file.
